


Whatever It Takes

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, angst, romance. Happy Valentine's Day! I still do not own The Blacklist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever It Takes

"It doesn't matter to me. Whatever it takes. You need to be ready. On your own time."

He speaks so earnestly, so persuasively. Elizabeth Keen knows he's lying. She's read the old surveillance reports.

Hell, she commissioned the new ones. 

Raymond Reddington is no monk, for all he's been trying to approximate one since she was rescued. She's too broken to even explain that she can never, ever, satisfy his appetites. But she can't imagine denying him anything he needs so frequently, either.

Liz rises from her seat behind Cooper's old desk. Her desk, now.

"Red, we're done talking about this."

Two years ago, after the team let an innocuous seeming psychopath named Davis Miller who had been working with their current blacklister slip away, he returned. Took his revenge on Liz.

Turning his torture, rape and captivity of her into Reverse Stockholm Syndrome netted the FBI more than twenty men of similar proclivities.

Earned her a temporary promotion that her ongoing collaboration with Red has made permanent. 

Elizabeth Keen turns her hard as glass blue eyes on her team, and they produce for her without fail.

Even the most recalcitrant of them, Raymond Reddington.

But what he wants from her, she's not willing to give him.

"Lizzie, please?"

He always asks. The way he asked that night before Davis Miller snatched her away.

If she had said yes that night, would none of this ever have happened?

"Good night, Red. I'll see you on Monday."

Red picks up his hat, turns away, shuts the door gently behind him because he knows she would wince if he slammed it.

She still flinches at loud noises, for all that she shoots at the range downstairs for at least an hour almost every night after work.

Liz winces anyway, because she knows he wants to slam it.

Red keeps coming back. Keeps piling success after success on her desk. Will he ever give up?

Liz stares at the stacks of work in her office. It's another Friday night alone. 

For a brief moment, she indulges in just a taste of the forbidden fantasy.

She lays her hand in Red's when he invites her to dance. He holds her close, song after song, eventually escorts her upstairs to his hotel room. Kisses her with some immense, unfathomable tenderness that she tries and tries to visualize, but that slips away even as she attempts to grasp at it.

She never leaves the bar alone by the side entrance next to the restrooms, when he's distracted, ordering drinks.

Davis Miller and his teenage recruits never pull up beside her as she tries to hail a cab in the fog.

Three different therapists have warned her against this fantasy. She needs to adjust to and face reality, to somehow integrate it.

But Liz suspects she's too broken, by her own hand, to ever move on. Red can't save her. He never could.

She's enough like Davis Miller to ensnare him. 

She's become Tom Keen.

Liz covers her face with her hands, and weeps silently at her desk, shoulders shaking. At last she wipes her face, blows her nose. Re-applies her careful make-up using the mirror and cosmetics bag she keeps locked in the side drawer of her desk.

She'll skip shooting practice, tonight. She's so accurate now with her service weapon that the range is boring.

Liz collects her long black wool overcoat, straightens her conservative wool suit jacket before stepping from her office and locking it behind her.

The Post Office bustles with the ordinary confusion of the evening. Liz smiles and waves, sags against the wall of the elevator that carries her down to her car.

She drives a big ugly Lincoln Navigator with bullet proof glass now.

Her apartment building has excellent security. Sometimes she feels as if she's locked in, rather than the outside world being locked out.

***

Red is leaning against her car, hat tipped back on his head.

Liz pauses, remote raised, unwilling to unlock the car.

"Do you need something, Red?"

He shrugs.

"Every Friday you drive straight home, and we don't see you again until Monday," he comments genially.

Liz shakes her head, not disturbing her tightly pinned back hair at all. What is he doing here, anyway?

"Not true," she responds crisply.

Red beams. It seems she's stepped into his trap.

"Monica's baby shower, 17 weeks ago," he retorts. 

She meets his gaze with an effort.

"So produce more blacklisters, on weekends," she responds. Not stepping any closer.

She's in the basement of a secret federal facility, every movement, every word, being recorded on film.

What is he doing here?

"I need a lift, Assistant Director Keen," he states, drawing himself up and giving her a challenging stare. "And I believe you are going my way."

Liz glares at him, but he responds with a decidedly affable smile.

He's insufferable. But it's raining outside, she can hear the pounding of the water through the exterior drains, and the air smells like sulfur and gardenias.

Lightning arcs over the carefully cultivated exterior plantings.

Liz presses the button on the remote. The sooner she drops him off, the sooner she will be alone again.

"Get in, Red."

***

Liz drives slowly, attentive to the speed limit on the wet roads.

Red sits silently in the passenger seat beside her.

He must want something. Something he doesn't want to ask her about at the Post Office.

Flipping on her turn signal, Liz mentally runs through her monthly budget. She has a little slack. Maybe more than usual.

She knows Dembe is in Arizona this week. But she can't believe Red is here for protection.

"Where are you going?" she asks. She's driving toward her apartment, in the absence of any further direction.

"Your place."

Liz shakes her head.

"Oh no. I'm not inviting you over on a Friday night."

"I'm not asking for an invitation, Lizzie."

When he produces the gun, enormous with the long silencer protruding from it, the shock is almost a relief.

Raymond Reddington, criminal. Liz can handle that, somehow.

"You're going to regret this," she tells him as she accelerates through the rain.

"Perhaps," he responds without inflection. "Park next to the elevator, on the fourth floor."

***

The security lights and camera are out. The little red light that normally tracks her movements is absent.

"Stairs," says Red, gesturing with his gun.

Liz precedes him to her apartment, unlocks the door.

Pauses on the door mat, one foot forward.

"Elizabeth!" Dembe emerges from the kitchen, wearing one of her older aprons, natural linen emblazoned with purple grapes. He hands her a flute of champagne.

Liz takes it, steps forward. Red shuts the door behind her.

Violin music is playing softly from the small CD player in the kitchen. The heavy curtains at the glass doors leading to her balcony shut out the rain.

Dembe is here. Whatever Red has planned, it's going to be okay. She takes a sip of her champagne. It's French, delicious. Dizzying on her empty stomach.

She doesn't like to eat at the Post Office.

Her small dining nook has been transformed. A white linen cloth covers the table, which is set with candles, real china, sterling silver in a sleek modern pattern. A far cry from her customary paper plates.

Three places have been set. Liz relaxes further. Whatever Red wants, Dembe must have some relevant information. She can handle this. She takes another sip of champagne.

Red refills her glass, gestures with his gun.

"May I put this away now?" he asks her quietly.

She gives him a level look.

He shrugs, tilts his head, smiles warmly at her. 

Red has a vintage champagne bottle in one hand and a gun in the other. He lifts one, then the other.

Choose.

It's been a hell of a week.

"Put it away, Red," she sighs. "Truce."

The gun disappears into a concealed holster. Liz spares a thought for how often he may have come armed to the Post Office, decides that particular worry can wait for Monday.

She shrugs out of her gray suit jacket, folds it over her arm. She's wearing a soft pink silk shell and fitted slacks, a little loose due to her continuing weight loss. She left her overcoat in the car.

"So, why are you both here?" she asks Dembe, as Red arranges himself on her couch and pours himself a generous flute of champagne. There are more bottles waiting on ice.

Dembe grins at her.

"Wait, I'll show you," he says. He ducks back into her small kitchen, from which amazing smells are emerging, returns with an enormous crystal vase of red roses.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Elizabeth," he says, holding them out so she can smell the rich scent emanating from the perfectly open blooms. They are old roses, irregular petals and twisting stems with small dark thorns.

Liz touches one petal, bends to take a deeper whiff.

She can't help but smile back at Dembe, waiting so expectantly. 

"Thank you," she says softly.

He beams and takes the roses into the living area, places them on the coffee table.

Takes the champagne flute Red hands him, lifts it towards her.

Red.

What can he possibly want that is worth all this effort?

She takes another drink of her champagne before meeting his eyes.

He's set his hat on the couch beside him, right in the center. He reaches over it and pats the couch.

"Come sit down and enjoy your champagne," he says invitingly. "Dinner will be just a few more minutes."

Dembe is sitting in the only side chair, an upholstered rocker beneath a reading light. He's examining the tall, close-woven basket beside it, scanning through her current reading material as he sips his champagne.

That tactful hat. Red knows she doesn't want him too close.

Liz takes a seat, perched on the edge of the couch. Drapes her jacket behind her. Holds out her glass for more champagne.

It's so good. Each bottle probably costs a couple of hundred dollars.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Lizzie."

Liz stares over at Red in the brief space created as he pours, his eyes intent on carefully filling her flute.

Elegantly dressed as always, his white shirt seems just a little crisper, his face close shaven, his silvery hair gleaming clean.

He's wearing a dark blue silk tie with a floral pattern, one she suddenly remembers complimenting him on more than two years ago. In another life.

She swallows hard. Takes another sip of champagne to wash away the sour taste of fear.

She can do this. She needs to keep trying to integrate.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she manages, gesturing with her glass toward Red and then Dembe.

"The first of many, I hope," Dembe returns.

What?

Red's eyes crinkle at the corners in the way she's always found so appealing. His smile is coaxing. As she meets his eyes, he crosses his legs away instead of turning his body towards her.

The gesture could be read as indifference, but she's just close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat, feel the momentary scorch of his gaze before his eyes go liquid and gentle. As if that surge of desire had never occurred.

Her hand shakes, and he reaches out with that lightning speed she's always admired but never quite managed to replicate, catches the glass without touching her hand.

Not a drop spilled.

"Easy, Lizzie," he says softly. 

She looks at his hand. Pale, well-kept, deceptively soft, in fact.

Like Red himself. 

He hasn't touched her for months. Not since the time she almost broke his wrist. She couldn't help herself, stop herself from reacting.

Dembe is standing, his now empty champagne flute set on the floor. 

"Shall I serve dinner now?"

He's looking at her. Waiting for an answer.

"Yes, please."

Red is still holding her glass. She stares at his familiar hand. No change. For once, she's looking closely at a man, any part of a man, and the image isn't morphing into Davis Miller.

It's been unbelievably stressful and disgusting, because it sometimes even happens with corpses.

It must be the champagne. 

Liz wants to touch Red's hand. Davis Miller had large, hairy hands. Big battered knuckles. 

What will she feel, if she touches Red?

Liz can barely tolerate the rare handshakes her work requires. She's learned to cut her own hair, grown long now and tucked back into a bun.

"Red? Can you hold very still?"

"Of course, Lizzie."

Clenching her left hand in her lap, Liz lets go of the stem of the flute. Opens her right hand, reaches out, cautiously strokes the back of Red's hand with her forefinger. 

Smooth warm skin. 

He holds the glass perfectly steady as she touches him, but she can hear his breathing quicken.

Liz waits for the surge of nausea. Nothing.

"Thank you, Red."

She takes the flute from his hand, drains it, holds it out for more.

He refills her glass without comment, then his own.

A clatter from the kitchen announces the return of Dembe, who brings their plates to the table. 

An array of Italian food, including homemade ravioli.

They seat themselves automatically, Red and Dembe with their backs to the wall.

"Oh, very well done," exclaims Red after his first bite. Dembe grins, a little shyly, and she watches Red's face soften in response.

She has her back to the door, she's extremely tipsy, and she's consuming enough rich food to be ready to hibernate. Two heavily armed criminals are sitting across the table from her, discussing restaurants in Milan.

She feels unaccountably, unexpectedly safe.

Eating the delicious meal in small, appreciative bites, Liz turns the sensation over in her mind.

She knows, intellectually, that Red and Dembe would never choose to harm her. It seems her emotions, her body, her damaged psyche have finally decided to concur.

She watches Dembe cut a bite of his veal, lift it gracefully to his lips. Nothing. Not a trace of Davis Miller.

She turns her gaze to Red, finds him watching her with a faint smile.

"I hope you're leaving room for dessert, Lizzie," he says.

Liz looks down at her empty plate. She doesn't remember the last time she ate a full meal.

If she laid her head down now, she'd be asleep in an instant. And that's so new she closes her eyes, sways in her seat. Clutches the edge of the table with both hands for balance.

It takes a specific ritual for her to relax into sleep. Reading. Bathing. Checking and re-checking the door and window locks, the alarm system, her phone.

"Lizzie?"

Liz opens her eyes. Red has reached across the table, laid his hand palm up beside hers, not touching her. She bites her lip. Integrate. She has to try.

She unclenches her hand, sets her fingers cautiously against his. Nothing.

Looks up to see a flash of triumph in his eyes as his fingers curl around hers.

Oh no. Oh no.

She grits her teeth, waits for the terror.

Still nothing.

Only last month, Ressler reached for her arm, trying to precede her into an unsecured crime site, and she reflexively knocked him to the ground. He's still nursing his cracked ribs.

Liz takes careful, shallow breaths. Allows Red to squeeze her hand, stroke her scar. His fingers encircle her wrist for a moment. Not painful, but evocative. He knows what she went through. They all do.

He's touching her hand and wrist with both hands now. She keeps her eyes closed.

It's like a strange dream. The champagne is really hitting her hard.

She hears Dembe in the kitchen. The music stops, then begins again. A waltz.

"Lizzie."

Red's voice is deep, commanding.

"Dance with me."

Not a question. He should know better. At least Dembe will be here to pick up the pieces of them both. Call an ambulance, if necessary.

She keeps her eyes closed, rises from the table, feels him guide her the few steps to the center of her small living room.

She stops and waits, expecting him to arrange her in position opposite him, as he did the only previous time they danced.

Instead he pulls her close, tucks her into the curve of his big body and begins to sway to the music.

Liz is flooded, overwhelmed with sensations.

The warmth of his body. The feel of his lips moving against her hair. His right arm holding her close, his left hand folded around around her right hand, pressed close between them. She moves with him, holds him lightly, the smooth wool of his suit against her bare arms.

It's not the forbidden fantasy. This is something new.

She can smell Red's cologne, hear him carefully adjusting his breathing to match her own. Feel him creating a little space as the brush of her body against him becomes too intimate.

It's a waltz, but they're not really waltzing. More like slow dancing. Liz allows her thighs to brush his, her arm to pull him a little closer.

He raises their joined hands to his mouth, kisses her fingers.

Nothing. He's still just Red. What is happening to her?

Liz tucks her head against his shoulder, her breasts pressed to his chest, so close she imagines she can hear his heart beating.

Waits, holding her breath, for his suit to turn to bloody scrubs. His breath to turn foul.

"Lizzie."

"Red?"

She tilts her head back, opens her eyes as he steps back a little.

"I'm going to kiss you, now."

She swallows, nods, keeps her eyes open as his lips descend.

Their first kiss. Nothing magical, except that it's Red. All Red. 

He pulls back, his eyes searching her face.

"Again," she whispers.

He's less careful, more demanding. She arches her back and kisses him back, plastering herself against him. If he lets her go, she'll fall, she thinks muzzily.

"Enough, Lizzie."

Red pulls her into a hug, holds her swaying against him once again.

She's so dizzy, she feels as if she's about to pass out. Her mind is spinning. It's not just desire. She feels as if her nervous system is being re-written, cross-wired so that touch has a taste, music a smell. Integration should feel like confidence, not insanity.

"Dembe, come help me,"

Lizzie feels herself lifted, carried prone on her back into her bedroom.

It's dark and still and familiar.

Red pulls the bedclothes back and they place her gently in the center of the bed, cover her up still dressed in her clothes.

She opens her eyes as they start to leave the room.

"Red, stay."

He turns back, leans down to squint at her in the darkness.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Lizzie," he whispers softly. "You need to be ready. I can wait. As long as it takes."

She sobs. He's turning to leave.

"I know," she manages to get out, "Just please. Don't leave."

He pauses, leans down so close his breath is hot against her cheek. His thumb brushes aside her tears.

"Never."

He presses a chaste kiss to her cheek, presents his face for her kiss in return.

She allows her lips to linger, basking in the reassuring scent of his skin, his cologne.

"I'll be waiting, when you awaken," he says, dropping one last kiss on her forehead.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Lizzie." 

Red stands silhouetted in the doorway of her bedroom. Liz blinks at him, calls back sleepily before he shuts the door behind him.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Red."

She snuggles down to sleep, imagining him and Dembe sharing dessert. Looking forward to awakening for the first time in two years.

Happy indeed. At long last.


End file.
